


Cold Fire

by Britpacker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, S01 E02 "Sleight Of Hand"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It defines them both.  Ice can burn as fiercely as any flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the end of episode two “Sleight Of Hand” and slightly foreshadows a conversation between the two in episode three. I suspect Richelieu knows his creature much too well to believe she didn’t filch that nice little trinket for herself! Alternating POVs in each small section, the Cardinal’s first.

"He could be useful to you."

“And to you.”

My quiet suggestion stops her in her tracks. It’s rare indeed to see a blush stain Milady’s ivory cheek but my implication is clear and she’s too intelligent to make any pretence at misunderstanding. “D’Artagnan is a fool and a pup but he has spirit and, as you say, the Devil’s luck. Better to make him your man than leave him to the Musketeers!”  


The argument is sound, but… “He sounds reckless. Brave, but stupid. A better fit with Treville’s men than mine, don’t you think?”

She follows in my wake as silent as a cat, and just like a cat her bristling displeasure is unmistakable. I have to stay a step ahead lest she see me smile, amused by the comparison. “Even a fool can be useful,” she says. “And as I say, he’s half in love already….”

“Perhaps he’s not the only one.”

I doubt she’s so far gone – that kernel of ice in the place of her heart won’t be so easily thawed by a tumble with some handsome Gascon hothead – but it pleases me to shake her frosty assurance, and when the breath catches in her throat I know I’ve succeeded. 

“I’m not so easily won by a clumsy boy. D’Artagnan may be more pleasing than Senor Mendoza but my purpose with him is the same; to bring whatever benefit I can to your cause.”

So smooth, the words; so practised. Does she believe them? Do I?

No. Milady de Winter and I are at one in that respect, neither one of us is so naïve as to trust another human soul. Perhaps that’s why – despite her arrogance, because of her ruthlessness - I make such use of her.

What makes a woman place her body in service to a man’s political business? Why does this creature – fresh, beautiful, with the poise of a gentlewoman and the calculating heart of a statesman – kill without compunction on my command? 

And why does she think she can deceive me of all men, with her whispered, wide-eyed lies? Does she think me so blind I don’t see the glint of a fine gold chain against that soft white throat?

The man has yet to be born who could wholly resist her charms. She knows that and I, despite my vows at ordination, am no less a man than any other. I am not immune to her erotic allure but neither am I, like her Gascon puppy, bedazzled by it.

Perhaps it’s time to remind her that the dangers of her calling don’t all come from beyond my palace gates. 

“Then you would not attempt to deceive me in any way, Milady?”

*

The words are silky, almost purred. There’s something feline about him at all times; something of the controlled power of a large black cat, completely assured of its superiority over the mouse. Though I serve him honestly – in the main – and have never failed him in all my years at his service, I’m no less a mouse to him than any other. A sudden movement – a small mistake – and he’ll take my head off without compunction or remorse.

I’ve never doubted his ruthlessness; have emulated it in my own small way. He commands. I obey. If he tells me, such a man must die before daybreak, then that man will die at my hand. Does it cause him pangs of conscience? 

Perhaps.

He knows I suffer none. That is my principal value to him. 

My only value.

“Never, Your Eminence.”

He watches me in silence; utterly still, hands folded, head on one side. It is, even after five years, unnerving. As if those penetrating grey eyes, cold and inflexible as my dagger’s blade, are seeing into the depths of my soul. His thin lips twist. Amusement? Disdain? I don’t know.

With him, I never know.

Rage. I identify it a moment too late, when he strikes with a serpent’s speed to seize the chain around my neck; still delicate enough not to snap it though his knuckles show white with the force of his grip. “Never _again_ , Milady,” he growls, so close his warm breath dances over my cheek. At least it provides some heat as I feel the blood drain away and my heart skips two beats.

The Queen’s diamond pendant. A pretty trinket I considered earned in his service.

He thinks differently. 

Were it not Anne’s jewel, he’d tear it from my neck. Instead, he unclasps it as carefully as any bedchamber woman, dangling the diamond before my hungry eyes a moment before tucking it safely inside his supple black leather coat. “The King will reward an honest subject highly for its return,” he drawls, and I’d swear he leans even closer, pouring the words into my ear like the deadliest poison. “A pity you’ll see none of it.”

“My lord, I…”

I should know better. Before the protest can leave my tongue he thrusts out a hand and shoves me roughly back into the wall, looming over me with a bristling, crackling fury that makes me shrink back, feeling suddenly frailer, more vulnerable than I’ve been in years. This man, slender as he is, could break my neck with one hand. 

What’s more, he could do it without a qualm. I have betrayed him.

For the first time in my life, I know the true meaning of fear.

For the first time I have tried the limits patience of the most powerful – most dangerous – man in France. Stupid arrogance, to think he might believe me! My throat knows the feel of the noose again; my breath comes in short, harsh huffs. I can’t look away from those fiery, furious eyes. Only my tongue moves, sliding over the cracking dryness of my lips.

*

She’s terrified. Which means she may be more sensible than her recent behaviour would imply.

“I beg Your Eminence’s pardon.” My title twice in a single conversation tells me all I need to know about her state of mind. “The temptation… you know my history, the poverty…”

Her history. I know it better than the foolish chit would ever imagine; all of it, from the gutter where she was born to the gutter I plucked from five years ago to serve among my agents. I know what marks she hides with those fetching bands of velvet around her throat. I know what earned them, and how she evaded the death her crimes deserved. 

The death she’ll long for the day she tries my tolerance too far.

This, though – this audacious little attempted theft. Foolish. Greedy. An error of judgement. And another weapon to be held in readiness should it ever become necessary to destroy her. 

Contrary to what some might say, I am not a monster. I take no pleasure in causing pain. But I’ll never be weak when the destiny of France demands my strength.

She wets her lips again, her jade eyes huge, fixed on my stern face. So close, leaning into her, I think I can feel the rapid, shallow beat of her heart. Her pupils are dilated, her mouth puckered and pursed. So close to her my body, traitorous weak male flesh, can’t help but respond. 

Since Adele disappointed me I’ve been lonely, little though I care to dwell on the fact. This woman, her lovely curves sculpted of marble to contain a soul of ice, calls to the coldness in me. I could use her and be used without guilt or remorse; without sacrilegious horror. Her body is a weapon, to be used like the pistol or the blade. However beautifully made, contact with it may prove fatal.

As many a man has found to his cost!

*

So close I can feel his breathing change; watch the flaring of his nostrils as he inhales my scent and the darkening of his eyes, cold steel to molten platinum. He wants me, this dangerous, charismatic priest; this pitiless statesman who holds France in the palm of his hand, who dances King Louis on a string. Power and danger are the greatest aphrodisiacs, but they alone wouldn’t make my heart race and my body arch subtly toward his.

Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu, is a compelling man. His stillness, that outward composure, intrigues me while his coldness lights a fire in my belly, challenges me to provoke the carnality I’ve long sensed beneath the churchman’s veneer. If I should fail him, the pleasures of the flesh won’t save me: this man could love a woman tonight and have her despatched in the morning. I understand that.

And yet… and yet. My lips part; my tongue slides around the fullness of my bottom lip and when his grey head dips, his beard scraping the velvet smoothness of my skin, I feel no fear. Only exultation.

His mouth at least is warm; his palms too, gliding over my curves with ease, calluses at the base of his fingers, where the cross is gripped in his hands. I clutch his shoulders – broader than they seem, stronger than his duties would suggest – and he lifts me bodily, crushing me between unyielding stone and the unmistakable hardness of his arousal. “Never abuse my good nature again, Milady,” he rasps, and it’s not fear alone that makes me tremble now. Few men can make me ache with this fierce, carnal need. I know it’ll avail me nothing if I fail him, but still…. I can have him tonight. All of him, without fear of the emotional nonsense so many fools attach to these encounters. 

Does that make me a whore? I ask no payment – not for this. 

“Come.”

With the tip of his index finger he caresses the edge of the band around my throat. His smile is sly; devilish. I incline my head, letting my hair sweep forward, tumbling over my cheek and onto his hand. Where he leads, I’ll follow. The cold fire I feel in him draws me, a moth to the flame. No enthusiastic boy, however pretty, could excite me in the same visceral way.

*

She undresses me with the skill of a courtesan; teases me in removing her gown. This woman is not cowed by me, even now. Despite her failed deception, despite the certain knowledge I can destroy her on a whim, she holds my gaze and smiles when the graze of her fingertip across the nipple makes me gasp. I appreciate courage, and Milady de Winter has ample supplies of it.

I have to remind myself this emotionless creature had the stomach to bed the repellent Mendoza for our cause. Neither affection nor attraction guide her when deploying the formidable weapon that is her glorious body in this way. I may enjoy her all I please tonight, but it’s fortunate for us both I’m no possessive young hothead. She can leave before dawn with her head high, but if she imagines any kind of triumph over me, she’s mistaken.

She cries out when she peaks beneath me; clasps me so tight I’d fear for my ribs were I in any position to think rationally. When pleasure swamps me, I lose the will to try.

It’s been too long since I felt this perfect contentment. Adele’s betrayal cut deep; while replacing her would be a moment’s work I don’t care to expose myself to that danger again. I trusted her as much as I have trusted any soul since leaving my home to study at the College of Navarre. With what base currency did she repay me?

Milady de Winter will not make that mistake. I will be no jealous lover. I know her body is hers to use as she sees fit, and she may tumble with half the Paris garrison if she chooses, just as long as she brings the intelligence gathered there to me. I expect obedience; diligence. I don’t demand sexual fidelity because she chooses, once, to give herself in my bed.

An act of desperation, an attempt to placate an irate master? If so it’s imprudent, doomed to fail. I won’t forget her insolent theft, but I accept her for the guttersnipe she is: when one works with raw sewerage, after all, one must expect the smell to linger. 

Still, her caresses have eased the fierce burn of pain behind my temples, left my body feeling limp and liquid. Temptation enough to overlook her reckless fraud? No, but enough to make me more generous to a valuable servant than I might otherwise be. 

And if she should care to repeat this enjoyable encounter? I won’t resist any more than I will encourage. There’s little to match the solace of a beautiful woman’s embrace, even when that woman has a heart of stone and a soul of purest ice.

Perhaps, when the man concerned has the same, it is the safest way.

*

Such passion behind that frosty façade! I’m more intrigued – more enthralled by him than ever.

In my fantasies – of course I’ve had them, he’s compelling in his hawkish dignity and he holds the power of life and death over all his creatures – he was furtive; fumbling. Uncertain as befits a man of his cloth. Perhaps secretly I yearn to command him as he does me: to be effortlessly, chillingly conscious of my supremacy in one area of our relations at least. 

I should know him better. The Cardinal is a man who must control: men, events, his mistresses.

Is that what I am? Doubtful! To be his mistress would indicate permanence, and none of us have that to him. France’s destiny depends on his remaining in control. He has no time for the weakness of human emotion.

If he had, would I be so drawn to him? Isn’t it his certainty, his unflinching determination – cruel ambition, unkind souls would say – that makes me admire, even envy him this way?

He looks younger. 

I don’t want to notice. I refuse to acknowledge how the faint smile that plays on his thin lips suits him; the flush on his cheek, the way his eyelashes flutter, sweeping down over those mesmerising grey eyes. I don’t want him becoming human, vulnerable. I want him to be eternally stern and hard as granite because seeing him like this, so tranquil, pale flesh still touched with the pink warmth of exertion at my side…

No matter how long I’ve dreamed about it, the reality is shocking. Its effect on me is ominous. 

His callousness – he might call it pragmatism – makes me secure. I understand it; seek to emulate it. Seeing him as a living, feeling man shakes that.

Still, it reassures at the same time. He revelled in my touch, moaned aloud at his release like any other, but there are no sentimental declarations now and once I leave his bed I know there'll be a tacit agreement between us. We might never mention this _episode_ again. 

I also know the memory of it won’t restrain his rage if I disappoint him in future. There’s a comfort in that; in knowing precisely where one stands.

Though I try to be stealthy he feels my first movement. His eyes snap open and he’s up onto his hip before I can stretch more than my fingertip beyond the covers, feeling for the delicate bloom inside my cape. Does he expect a knife? 

Perhaps.

I’ve killed this way before. But not tonight; not with him. 

When he sees it he relaxes, lays back with his tousled dark silver curls tumbled on the snowy pillow, content to watch while I move and trail the sweet blue blossom across his moustache and down, dancing the petals across his lips. He inhales deeply, drinking in the fragrance and making no move when I flutter my chosen device southward to twirl at the base of his throat before dropping it onto his chest.

“Forget me not, Your Eminence,” I murmur and his mouth twitches with the smallest hint of a smile. “Milady de Winter is yours in word and deed.”

“Forget not, Milady, I hold my agents to their promises,” he answers, unwavering. “Your body is yours: do with it as you will, but remember your allegiance is to me and my orders. Seek profit elsewhere again and you’ll see I am more thorough in exacting vengeance than…. certain others of your acquaintance.”

The silky words stop my heart. Does he know? How can he?

Before I can ask he rolls, crushing me beneath his slender frame. The small flowers trapped between us crumple, the juice from their petals bleeding wet and warm against the curve of my breast. “Do we understand each other, Milady?” he growls, lifting his head to pierce me with that glittering gaze. 

My hips lift of their own volition, my thighs parting, silently inviting him to take what his body so craves. “Perfectly,” I gasp when he takes full advantage, his long, graceful fingers mapping all my most tender spots. What’s more, I believe we do.

Ours is a bargain of the purest kind. I serve him. He rewards me. Fail, and I know the consequences. 

Now I know I can have this, his body in my arms, the kiss of the most powerful man in France, on the same terms. The ice in him burns fiercely against that within me and I succumb to its wintry scorch without restraint. No matter that he feels nothing; that the next time he summons me I’ll be no more significant to him that the dirt of the gutter on his boots. Not a woman, still less a lover.

I am his lover tonight, and I’ll not forget it.

*

She makes no protest when I push back the covers and rise, simply follows in silence and begins to dress. There’s a certain relief in her lack of sentiment; a comfort in the businesslike way she asks my assistance with her corset. I’ve barely time to wrap myself in my heavy winter cloak before she is ready, standing with eyes cast down at my bedchamber door.

Does she expect payment? I dismiss the thought before it’s even complete. She may be called many things, but Milady de Winter is no man’s whore. I open the concealed door from my study, leading her down the narrow back staircase and through the deserted passageways, out to the kitchen gate. 

The night air chills the sweat still clinging to my body, however tight I pull the cloak around myself. The sensation, the slightest sting, is exquisite, almost distracting me from the furtive glances she casts to me. So she’s uneasy still, even fearful. Good.

Fear keeps these feral creatures sharp. And loyal.

In the shadows of the alley that runs alongside my palace she sinks to her knees, clumsy in offering that gesture of homage to my ecclesiastic rank the meanest country peasant would make with ease. In itself it betrays her but I can be generous, when it suits my purpose. She can be useful to me, still. Possibly more so for the fright she’s received tonight.

“I’ll send word when your services are required, Milady.” The formal dismissal rings in the silence, though I never raise my voice. Her head snaps up.

“I will endeavour to be ready, Your Eminence.”

A small bow of the head from me; a shallow exhale and a sweep of the cape from her, and I am alone, suddenly conscious of the cold seeping into my bones. I’m no longer young; nor do I have the ample flesh of many a greedy abbot to protect me on bitter mornings. Stealthily, like a thief within the walls of my own home, I retrace my steps.

The remnants of her forget-me-not lie crushed, their fluids seeping into the paleness of my sheets. Careful, I scrape them away and toss them into the grate, consigning her pledge with them to tomorrow’s flames. I trust she will remember those words; learn her lesson.

It would grieve me to destroy such a remarkable creature, should treachery, vanity or greed, make it necessary. A good weapon takes time to mould and though I have many at my disposal, few are more useful to me than her.

As I slide back between the covers I catch a trace of her scent and inhale it deeply. Her willingness won’t save her; she’ll know that well enough. But it will, in some small degree, add to my regret should her usefulness come to an end!


End file.
